UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


ROBERT  ERNEST  COWAN 


SAN  FRANCISCO  : 

EDWARD    BOSQUI    &    CO. 

PBINTEBS. 


Po  EMS. 


BY 


CHARLES    WARREN  STODDARD. 


SAN    FRANCISCO  : 
A.     ROMAN    AND    COMPANY. 

1867. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  Year  of  our  Lord  1867, 
By    A.    ROMAN    &    CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Northern  District  of  the  State  of 
California. 


TS 

.  ^ 
A\ 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

INVOCATION 9 

*p» 

OF  NATURE  — 
o> 

At  Point  Lobos 15 

be 

/«  Conference 20 

IS 

y                      Through  the  Shadows 24 

Tfo  Gutter— A  City  Idyl 26 

Vespers  ...    29 

.6V  /fo  .Z?;wX' 31 

Yosemite — Sonnet 33 

Ztojvfr 34 

The  Butterfly 36 

In  the  Desert—  1 38 

In  the  Desert — // 39 

Summer  Exodus 41 

The  First  Rain  — Sonnet 42 

Tamalpais 43 


286306 


6  POEMS. 

IDYLLIC  AND  LEGENDARY — 

Page. 

At  Anchor 49 

Drifting 51 

Singing  Shells " 53 

The  Two  Cleopalras 55 

At  the  Spring 58 

OF  THE  HEART  — 

Madrigal 63 

My  Little  Lcrve 64 

Sweetheart 65 

A  Proverb  Proved. : 68 

OF  FANCY  AND  IMAGINATION  — 

The  Secret  Well 71 

Cherries  and  Grapes 73 

The  Woodpecker 74 

Nighi  Song 75 

Mars 76 

The  Comet 77 

The  Angel,  the  Wine  and  Pearls 79 

Sanctuary 83 


CONTENTS.  7 
OF  ASPIRATION  AND  DESIRE  — 

Page. 

Decrees 89 

Fame 92 

Desire 93 

Compensation 95 

Unrest 97 

A  Rhyme  of  Life 99 

The  Awakening .  100 

OF  MEDITATION  — 

My  Friend 107 

Seed-time 109 

Penserosa 111 

At  Pollock's  Grave 113 

' '  Drozvned — "Drowned" 115 

The  Southern  Cross 117 

' '  Dion ' '  (Lyman  R.  Goodman] . . 119 

In  Memoriam  ..*.'.  .121 


INDEX   TO   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Page. 

POINT  LOBOS.      (Original by  Wm.  Keith] 15 

I  cling  to  bumped  rocks,  that  kneel 
On  unswept  sands,  where  breakers  reel. 

TAMALPAIS.      (Original by  Wm.  Keith) 43 

The  mountain  softened  in  its  shape, 
Its  perfect  symmetry  attained. 

AT  THE  SPRING.      (Engraved  by  Wm.  Keith) 58 


DECREES.      (Original by  Wm.  Keith) 89 

I  ask  what  manner  of  strange  ships  are  these 
Slipping  adown  the  seas ! 

N":  A  MEMORIAL..    (Engraved  by  Wm.  Keith}  .    119 


INVOCA  TION. 


,   Poesy  !    exquisite  gift, 
Thou  art  a  magnet  that  shall  lift 
My  gold  from  out  the  drossy  rift. 

Thou  art  my  soul's  refulgent  beam 
My  guiding  star  to  ever  gleam 
A  flaming  pillar  in  my  dream. 

Thou  art  my  drifting-cloud  by  day 
Whose  bright  pavilion-courts  alway 
Allure  me  with  their  fair  display. 

Thou  art  a  Hebe  that  presents 
A  chalice  to  my  lips,   and  thence 
I  drain  the  charmed,  rich  contents. 


i  o  POEMS. 

Delicious,  bubbling  nectars  twine 
Their  trickling  tendrils  as  a  vine 
Through  all  my  being ;  steept  in  wine 

And  numb  to  any  thought  of  earth 
I  wrestle  with  my  spirit's  mirth 
In  travail  with  a  poem's  birth. 

When  chasing  cares  are  wearying 
With  all  my  life  to  thee  I  cling — 
Believing  I  was  born  to  sing. 

Lo  !    thou  hast  taught  me  where  to  fly 
Escaping  every  ill ;    for  I, 
Transfigured  by  thy  witchery, 

As  Daphne  in  the  laurel  park 
Seem  wholly  shut  in  leafy  ark, 
I  feel  beneath  my  rugged  bark 

A  nerved  pulse  that  never  cowers ; 
The  turgid  stream  of  sap  hath  powers 
That  shall  beget  a  thousand  flowers. 


INVOCATION.  1 1 

I  quiver  from  my  very  root, 

I   strive  to  doff  my  leafy  suit 

And  load  my  boughs  with  perfect  fruit — 

And  lift  my  gnarled  limbs  to  thee — 
I  writhe  and  struggle  to  be  free 
Endowed  with  thy  divinity. 

Thou  art  my  fast  and  feast ;   and  true 
Thou  art  my  sweetest  twilight-dew, 
That  grants  me  purer  life  anew. 

And  as  the  llower  unto  the  moon 
Returns  its  hoarded  sweets  full  soon, 
I  yield  thee  all,   in  verse  and  tune. 


OF    NATURE 


A  T    POINT    LOB  OS. 


(    LEAR  noon  without  obscurity. 

No  flake  of  cloud  'twixt  heaven  and  me 

No  mist  athwart  the  Golden  Gate  : 
The  hearty  sun  doth  wilfully 

His  profuse  beams  precipitate. 


16  POEMS. 

I  cling  to  humped  rocks  that  kneel 
On  unswept  sands,   where  breakers  reel 

In  splendid  curves,  and  pile  their  foam 
In  spongy  hills,   that  slow  congeal, 

And  dulce  and  drift-wood  find  a  home. 

We  clasp  the  silver  crescent  set 
Within  the  hazy  parapet 

That  belts  the  horizon  :   in  glee 
I  count  the  fitful  puffs  that  fret 

The  eternal  levels  of  the  sea. 

I  watch  the  waves  that  seem  to  breathe 
And  pant  unceasingly  beneath 

Their  silken  coverings,  that  cringe, 
As  flecked  with  swirls  of  froth,  they  seethe, 

And  whip,   and  flutter  to  a  fringe. 

Brown  pipers  run  upon  the  sand 
Like  shadows  ;  far  out  from  the  land 

Gray  gulls  slide  up  against  the  blue ; 
One  shining  spar  is  sudden  manned 

By  squadrons  of  their  wrecking  crew. 


AxPoiNxLoBos.  17 

My  city  is  beyond  the  hill ; 
I  cannot  hear  its  voices  shrill  : 

I  little  heed  its  gains  and  greeds  : 
Here  is  my  song,  where  waters  spill 

Their  liquid  strophes  in  the  reeds. 

And  to  this  music  I  forswear 
Whatever  soils  the  world  with  care  : 

I  see  the  listless  waters  toss — 
I  track  the  swift  lark   through  the  air — 

I  lie  with  sunlight  on  the  moss. 

White  caravans  of  cloud  go  by 
Across  the  desert  of  bright  sky, 

And  burly  winds  are  following 
The  trailing  pilgrims,   as  they  fly 

Over  the  grassy  hills  of  spring. 

What  Mecca  are  they  hastening  to  ? 
What  princess  journeying  to  woo 

In  the  rich  Orient?      I  am  thrilled 
With  spice  and  odor  they  imbue — 

I  feed  upon  their  manna  spilled ! 


i8  POEMS. 

I  strip  my  breast  with  eager  mind, 
To  tarry  and  invite  the  wind 

To  my  embrace  :   by  curious  spell 
It  quickens  me  with  praises  kind — 

T  is  Ariel  that  blows  his  shell ! 

Invisible,  and  soft  as  dews 
Descending,  he  his  love  renews, 

Delighting  daisy  colonies 
That  gloss  them  with  the  lustrous  ooze 

Of  meadows  steeped  in  ecstacies. 

Until  the  homely,  sunburnt  Heads, 
The  tumbling  hills,  in  browns  and  reds, 

And  gray  sand-hillocks,  everywhere 
Are  buried  in  the  mist  that  sheds 

Its  subtle  snow  upon  the  air. 

And  Prospero,  aroused  from  sleep, 
Recalls  his  spirits  from  the  deep — 

They  cross  the  wave  with  stealthy  tread, 
Their  shadows  down  upon  me  sweep — 

And  day  is  past,  and  joy  is  fled. 


AT    POINT    LOBOS.  19 

I  hear  the  dismal  bells  that  shout 
Their  warning  to  the  ships  without : 

The  dripping  sails  are  reefed  and  furled, 
The  pilots  sound  and  grope  about — 

The  Gate  is  barred  against  the  world ! 


IN    CONFERENCE. 

F  I  could   fly  the  hateful  town, 
And  flying,  suddenly  discover 
Some  velvet  valley,   softly  brown, 
With  hills  that  elbow  one  another — 

Those  robust  hills  :   so  resolute 

And  satisfied,  with  brawny  shoulders 

Set  close  together,  in  their  mute, 
Firm  way,  that  startles  us  beholders, 

And  gathered  close  about  my  vale, 
To  nurse  it,   sitting  still  together, 

Its  body-guard  in  autumn  mail, 

Like  Arabs  in  their  cloaks  of  leather. 

I  would  dispose  myself  among 

Their  surging  waves  of  grain,  beseeching 
Some  brief  translation  of  their  tongue, 

Some  knowledge  of  their  healthful  preaching. 


IN    CONFERENCE.  21 

O  !    pleasure  for  a  spirit  vext, 

A  listening,  after  introduction, 
To  whispered  echoes  of  their  text, 

And  volumes  of  their  pure  instruction  ; 

While  ever  from  the  valley's  rim 
The  wind  peeps  over  as  it  passes, 

And  merrily  and  mild  for  him, 

Blows  silver  clouds  across  the  grasses ; 

Brings   down  an  apple  with   his   hail — 
Plump  skin — was  ever  apple  riper? 

And  frights,   in  hasty  whirr,   a  quail 
That  was  my  musical  chief  piper. 

Full-bosomed  quail  in  mottled  casque 
And  plume,  and  silken  bib  to  cover 

Your  panting  throat,   I  only  ask, 
Return  again  unto  your  lover ! 

Now  swoops  an  inky  cloud  of  birds 

Into  the  valley's  deepest  dimple ; 
They  storm  me  with  their  teasing  words, 

Yet  please  me  with  their  gambols  simple. 


22  POEMS. 

I  wish  those  five  in  epaulets 

Of  rose  would  quell  the  boisterous  greeting  ; 
But  I  suppose  each  one  forgets 

He  interrupts  my  quiet  meeting. 

Their  little  hearts  with  song-delight 
Are  over-full — sufficient  reason  ; 

The  pretty  things  are  pardoned  quite 
For  only  singing  out  of  season. 

Was  that  a  sprinkle  on  my  face, 

Descending  from  this  sky  of  blueness? 

Baptism  in  this  holy  place 

Is  fitting ;   for  a  sense  of  newness 

Pervades  these  vestibules  of  earth — 
Sacristies,   most  securely  hidden — 

These  halls,  appropriate  to  new  birth, 
Where  all  unto  the  feast  are  bidden. 

How  silent  has  the  valley  grown — 

The  birds  have  hushed  their  playful  riot ; 

A  mutter,  as  a  bee's  dull  drone, 
Is  all  that  stirs  the  perfect  quiet 


IN    CONFERENCE.  23 

Transparent  curtains  of  the  rain 

Are  sweeping  down  to  me,  delighting 

The  dusty  trees  ;   where  I  have  lain 
The  broken  grasses  now  are  righting. 

The  swarms  of  blackbirds  lift  away  ; 

The  most  demoralized  of  creatures 
Myself  will  be,   if  I  delay — • 

So  now,  farewell,  my  wholesome  preachers. 

With  your  broad  foreheads  in  the  mist, 
You  cannot  show  a  sign  of  sorrow ; 

But  you  are  honest,  keep  the  tryst — 
I'll  worship  with  you  on  to-morrow. 


THROUGH    THE    SHADOWS. 

A  LL  in  a  dream  i'  the  twilight, 

Glimmering  stars  in  their  glee, 
List  to  the  murmur  of  far-off 
Ripples  of  tropic  sea. 

Low  in  the  westward  bleeding 

The  sun  slowly  sinks  in  the  wave — 

Staining  and  tinting  with  crimson 
The  corals  that  fashion  his  grave. 

Out  through  the  mist  and  the  vapor, 
The  cloudy  wreaths  and  the  rings, 

Sunlight  has  flown  like  a  butterfly 
Brushing  the  gold  from  its  wings. 

Quiet  is  coming  and  folding 

Our  troubles  away;   and  our  woes 

Are  hushed  in  the  cool,  fragrant  shadows, 
Like  bees  in  the  heart  of  a  rose. 


THROUGH    THE    SHADOWS.  25 

Come  on  little  stars  all  silver, 

For  the  terrible  sun  has  gone, 
And  out  of  the  eastern  shadows 

The  moon  setteth  sail  for  the  dawn. 

Pale  are  the  stars — for  the  morning 

Is  blooming  fresh  as  the  May  ; 
So  through  the  shadows  we  wander, 

Seeking  the  perfect  day. 


I 

THE    GUTTER— A     CITY   IDYL 

\/OU  are  welcome,  dusky  cloud, 
With  your  bosom  swelling ; 

And  your  tears — their 'patter  cheers 
All  my  dusty  dwelling  : 

And  the  gutter  sudden  wakes 

In  a  thousand  voices ; 
O,  the  song  that  rings  along 

Where  the  rill  rejoices  ! 

I  am  happy  for  the  sight, 

Joining  your  carouses, 
Brook  and  I  go  laughing  by 

All  the  dripping  houses. 

You'll  excuse  us  for  the  noise, 
And  our  haste  and  flurry? 

We  must  fly,  for  soon  we  die, 
That  is  why  we  hurry. 


THE    GUTTER  —  A    CITY    IDYL.  27 

I  am  here  because  I  like 

/ 

Just  this  sort  of  weather  ; 
Brook  takes  me  for  company — • 
Down  we  go  together. 

Ha!   this  life's  a  merry  one, 

Though  a  thoughtless  scorner 
Cries,  "The  tomb  is  full  of  gloom, 

Down  upon  the  corner." 

What  if  all  its  life  is  brief — 

Born  of  such  a  shower — 
Running  through  a  block  or  two, 

Dying  in  an  hour  ? 

There  is  something  still  beyond — 

Death  is  nothing  surer — 
Brook  will  flow,  and  ever  grow 

Softer,  sweeter,  purer, 

Till  the  sun  doth  draw  it  hence, 

T'wards  its  quenchless  taper ; 
It  will  rise  into  the  skies 

As  a  silver  vapor. 


28  POEMS. 

As  it  floateth  in  the  air — 
Merciful  its  slumber — 

Then  again  is  born  the  rain 
Of  that  cloud  of  umber. 

But  the  brook  is  growing  still — 

Is  the  rain  abating ! 
In  a  breath  will  sudden  death 

Take  it  at  the  grating. 

You  would  hardly  know  it  now 
For  its  faintest  mutter — 

A  shriveled  tongue  that  laps  among 
The  cobbles  in  the  gutter. 


VESPERS. 

PHE  poppies  nod  their  sleepy  brows, 
And  reel  adown  the  opiate  air  ; 
The  somber  lilies  slowly  rouse, 

And  fold  transparent  hands  in  prayer. 

The  climbing  roses  whisper  soft 
Sweet  messages ;   the  four-o'clocks 

Are  drowsy  now — but  far  aloft 
I  see  the  watchmen-hollyhocks. 

The  Moslem-lilacs  seem  to  call 

On   ' '  Allah  "  through  the  red  sunset  ; 

They  rise  upon  the  turret-wall 
Of  every  leafy  minaret. 

The  stately  tulips  at  this  hour 

Forget  their  pride.     With  good  intent 

The  haughty  dahlias  yield  their  dower — 
The  dusky  peony-queens  relent. 


3o  POEMS. 

A  thousand  lights  are  swung  in  view 
From  heaven's  dome.     I  leave  the  fair 

Meek  violets  kneeling  in  the  dew ; 
It  is  the  evening  hour  of  prayer. 


BY    THE    BROOK. 


across  the  hill's  low  brow- 

A  slender,  silver  fillet  — 
Nothing  is  so  musical 

As  my  little  rillet. 
Ah  !    that  laughing  song  of  yours  ! 

Delicately  trill  it. 

Shall  I  fret  you,  hasty  brook  ? 

Shall  I  mar  your  paces  — 
Weaver,  weaving  silver  threads 

Into  silver  laces, 
Round  about  and  in  and  out 

The  sunniest  of  places? 

Loose  your  tresses  in  the  chase, 

Slip  about  the  border 
Of  yon  garden  wall,  and  catch 

A  blossom,  gay  marauder  ! 
What  shall  please  my  love  of  ease 

As  vour  sweet  disorder  ? 


32  POEMS. 

While  the  world  goes  jogging  on, 

Presently  I  miss  you ; 
Life  is  made  of  other  stuff 
Than  your  limpid  tissue. 
Turn  a  mill,  you  lazy  rill, 
•  While  I  wait  the  issue. 

Let  the  beetle  while  away 

The  Summer  with  its  drumming, 

Foam  you  at  the  whirling  wheel, 
And  babble  to  its  humming. 

Toil  away  the  livelong  day — 
It  is  more  becoming. 

Creep  beneath  the  sweeping  bough, 
While  each  ripple  twinkles, 

Starlike,  in  a  sky  of  leaves, 
And  your  frothy  crinkles 

Form  a  leathern  apron  there, 
Full  of  creamy  wrinkles. 

When  the  bald  and  brazen  day 
Hath  donned  his  dusky  visor, 

Still  you  flow  a-down  apace, 
While  night's  myriad  eyes  are 

Watching  you  ;   for  what  they  view 
No  one  is  the  wiser. 


YO-S  EMITE. 

INNUMERABLE  lessons  to  relate 

And  myriad  voices  rushing  to  baptize 
These  chosen  lips,  which  send  into  the  skies 
Their  oracles,  to  awe  and  elevate. 

The  world's  chief  mouth-piece  is  this  marvelous  gate, 
That  lavish  nature  wholly  sanctifies 
With  majesty  and  beauty.     Here  my  eyes 
Some  revelation  seem  to  penetrate  ; 

For  God,  begetting  mysteries  from  the  first, 
All  glorified,  stood  down  upon  the  rock, 
And  smiting  through,  the  curious  earth  was  riven — 

A  thousand  silver  arteries  were  burst — 

The  mountains  staggered  from  the  fearful  shock, 
With  heart  laid  bare  to  the  soft  eyes  of  Heaven. 


D  US  K. 


CMOLDERING  in  heat 

Beyond  the  blue  hill, 
His  mission  complete, 
At  the  Deity's  feet, 

When  the  evening  is  still, 
The  Sun,  prone  and  lowly, 

At  Angelus  kneeling  ; 

But  partly  revealing, 
Yet  not  hiding  wholly 
A  shrine  and  Christ  crucified, 

Borne  aloft  tenderly, 
With  lovers  side  by  side 

Telling  a  rosary. 

In  the  violet  East, 

All  dripping  with  dew, 
Above  the  long,  high, 
Purple  mountains,  that  lie 


DUSK.  35 

By  the  vail  of  the  night 
And  the  valley  of  dreams, 

Half  dark  and  half  light, 
With  a  flood  of  bright  beams, 

The  moon  steals  in  view. 
The  murmur  has  ceased 

In  the  field  and  the  forest ; 

The  bee  and  the  bird 

No  longer  are  heard  ; 
The  flocks  are  not  bleating  ; 

My  cares  that  were  sorest — 
My  pains  that  were  fleeting, 

Are  gone,  or  at  rest  ; 
As  blessings  entreating, 
I  linger  repeating 

My  "Ave  Maria" — so  happy,  so  blest, 

With  cross  on  my  forehead  and  cross  on  my  breast. 


THE    BUTTERFLY. 

'T^HOU  little  beauty,  wafted  by 
Upon  the  summer's  gentle  sigh ; 

What  art  thou  ?     Tell  me,  pray  ! 
A  sunbeam  wandering  from  the  sky, 

That  earthward  found  its  way? 

A  gorgeous  flower,  too  rudely  blown? 
A  beautiful  bright  birdling,  flown 

From  some  enchanted  coast — 
A  winged  mosaic,  that  hath  known 

More  art  than  man  can  boast? 

Spring's  sudden  flying  brought  to  view 
Thy  form,  among  the  moss  that  grew 

Along  the  garden  wall; 
I  saw  thee  as  thou  didst  renew 

The  fleeces  of  thy  pall. 


THE    BUTTERFLY.  37 

And  from  the  homely  commonplace 
Of  thy  crude  life  I  now  can  trace 

Thy  fair  and  wondrous  powers ; 
I  learn  the  secret  of  the  grace 

That  brightens  my  dull  hours. 

When  folded  in  the  noiseless  gloom — 
Lo  !   the  shut  portals  of  thy  room 

At  last  were  opened  wide — 
Sunlight  had  cleft  the  sealed  tomb 

Where  beauty  did  abide. 

May  not  the  homely  thought  we  find 
Among  the  rudest  of  our  kind 

Yet  serve  an  end  complete, 
If  chance  it  be  but  choicely  lined, 

As  was  thy  winding  sheet  ? 

For  so  a  poem  will  forsake 
Its  little  hiding  cell,  to  wake 

In  life's  delicious  pain, 
When  sunshine  of  the  heart  shall  break 

The  chrysalis  of  the  brain. 


IN    THE    DESERT. 


BEDOUIN     IN     AMBUSH. 


hawks,  in  dismal  disarray, 
Across  a  sky  of  slaty  gray, 
Now  dusking  wifh  the  dusking  day. 

The  sun  low  down,  and  almost  hid 
Beneath  a  vapory,  dull  lid, 
Over  against  a  pyramid. 

One  cluster  of  incessant  green, 

Three  slender  palms  that  tower  and  lean- 

A  crouching  sentinel  between. 

No  hissing  breath  upon  the  lip  — 
No  stir  in  poised  knee  and  hip  — 
No  quiver  from  the  finger  tip  ; 


39 


But,  pointing  from  the  fatal  lair, 
The  lithe  wrist  glued  about  the  bare, 
Dull-gleaming  rifle's  livid  glare. 

And  slow,  with  wearisome  slow  limb, 

A  caravan  approaching  him 

With  fringe  of  shadows  long  and  slim. 


II. 

BEDOUIN    ABROAD. 

A  sky  of  glimmering,  cool  steel, 

But  barely  serving  to  reveal 

The  desert  where  the  camels  kneel. 

An  awkward  buzzard  on  the  wing  ; 
Above  one  star  in  filmy  ring  ; 
While  lower  ranks  are  hovering 

By  pots  of  delicate,  spiced  flesh  ; 
Abundant  fruits  in  silken  mesh  ; 
And  jars  of  oil,  and  olives  fresh  ; 


40  POEMS. 

And  costly  vestments  of  the  Kahn, 
Despoiled  with  bloody  mare  and  man — 
The  remnants  of  a  caravan. 

Against  the  sky-rim,  silver)', 
One  motionless,  tall  cocoa-tree ; 
The  pyramids  in  angles  three. 

And  yonder,  where  the  morning  lowers, 
The  fleet-winged  flying-horseman  scours 
T'ward  Ghizeh  and  her  shining  towers. 


IDYLLIC    AND    LEGENDARY, 


TAMALPAIS. 


T_J  OW  glorious  thy  dwelling  place ! 
How  manifold  thy  beauties  are  ! 

I  do  not  reckon  time  or  space — 

I  worship  thy  exceeding  grace, 
And  hasten,  as  a  flying  star, 
To  reach  thy  splendor  from  afar. 

The  first  flush  of  thy  morning  face 
Is  dear  to  me  ;  thy  shadowless, 
Broad  noon  that  doth  all  sweets  confess  ; 


44  POEMS. 

But  fairer  is  thy  even  fall, 
When  seem  to  cry  with  airy  call 

Thy  roses  in  the  wilderness. 
Thy  deserts  blithely  blossoming, 
Decoy  me  for  the  love  of  Spring. 
With  all  thy  glare  and  glitter  spent, 
Thy  quiet  dusk  so  eloquent ; 

Thy  vail  of  vapors — the  caress 

Of  Zephyrus,   right  cool  and  sweet— 
I  cannot  wait  to  love  thee  less — 
I  cling  to  thee  with  full  content, 

And  fall  a  dreaming  at  thy  feet. 

Anon  the  sudden  evening  gun, 

Awakes  me  to  the  sinking  sun 
And  golden  glories  at  the  Gate. 

The  full,   strong  tides,  that  slowly  run 
Their  sliding  waters  modulate 
To  indolent  soft  winds  that  wait 

And  lift  a  long  web  newly  spun. 
I  see  the  groves  of  scented  bay. 

And  night  is  in  their  fragrant  mass; 


TAM  ALPAIS.  45 

But  tassel-shadows  swing  and  sway, 
And  spangles  flash  and  fade  away 

Upon  their  glimmering  leaves  of  glass — 
And  there  a  fence  of  rail,  quite  gray, 

With  ribs  of  sunlight  in  the  grass — 
And  here  a  branch  full  well  arrayed 
With  struggling  beams  a  moment  stay'd — 
Like  panting  butterflies  afraid. 

Lo !   shadows  slipping  down  the  slope 

And  filling  every  narrow  vale, 

The  shining  waters  growing  pale — 
The  mellow-burning  star  of  Hope 
And  in  the  wave  its  silver  trope. 

A  slender  shallop,   feather-frail, 

A  pencil-mast  and  rocking  sail. 
The  glooms  that  gather  at  the  Gate  ; 

The  somber  lines  against  the  sky, 

While  dizzy  gnats  about  me  fly, 

And  overhead  the  birds  go  by, 
Dropping  a  note  so  crystal  clear, 
The  spirit  cannot  choose  but  hear. 


46  POEMS. 

The  hollow  moon,  and  up  between 
An  oak  with  yard-long  mosses,   green 

In  sunlight,   now  as  dull  as  crape  ; 

The  mountain  softened  in  its  shape, 
Its  perfect  symmetry  attained — 
And  swathed  in  velvet  folds,  and  stained 

With  dusty  purple  of  the  grape. 


SUMMER    EXODUS. 

PURNS  Summer  hence  her  queenly  feet, 
That  early  spring  the  daffodils 
To  kiss,  and  martial  grasses  greet, 
While  every  flower  a  tear  distills. 

I  cross  the  stubble  fields,  all  sweet 
With  shining  stalks  ;   a  longing  fills 

My  heart,  to  warble  and  repeat 
The  robin  in  his  liquid  trills. 

I  am,  too,  happy  when  I  meet 

The  meadow,  where  the  mountain  spills, 
So  lithe  and  musical  and  fleet, 

Its  limpid  tress  of  brawling  rills  ; 

But  stay  my  solitary  beat — 

And  start,  as  sudden  odor  thrills 

My  brain,  of  spice  and  tropic  heat — 
Lo  !    Autumn  on  her  brazen  hills. 


THE    FIRST    RAIN. 

T^ETWEEN  the  ranks  of  thistle,  down  the  road, 
The  phantom  flocks  of  sunbeams  hastily, 
With  gilded  feathers  of  the  butterfly, 

Disperse  away;  anon  a  weary  load 

Of  grain,  wild  scented,  being  freshly  mowed, 
Comes  smoking  on  ;    as  from  the  brooding  sky 
There  fall  deliberate,  still  showers  of  shy, 

Big  rain-drops  all  around.     The  teamsters  goad 

The  swaying  oxen,  steaming,  to  a  shed 
For  covering.     The  brown  and  dusty  trees 

Are  whispering,  as  eagerly  they  spread 

Their  branches  in  the  rain,  and  stand  at  ease, 

And  listen,  yonder  in  the  clover  bed 

The  happy  buzzing  of  ten  thousand  bees ! 


A  T   ANCHOR. 

A     SAILOR  by  the  green  home  shore, 
When  seas  are  ebbing  from  his  view, 
Doth  all  his  early  joys  renew : 
He  sings  the  songs  he  sang  of  yore ; 

He  spies  his  little  cot,  he  smiles 

With  a  full  joy  ne'er  felt  before — 
He  holds  that  one  bare  prospect  more 

Than  all  the  summer  of  the  isles. 

The  quiet  home  is  his ;  the  trees 

Sprang  from  the  seeds  his  grandsires  laid 
Among  the  mold  ;  within  the  glade 

The  myrtles  rustle  in  the  breeze. 

Above  a  treasured  little  grave, 

His  early  lost,   his  first  deep  woe ! 
Not  any  land  that  he  may  know 

Beyond  the  purple  of  the  wave 


50  POEMS. 

Hath  such  a  jewel  in  its  breast. 

He  loves  each  rock  and  stream  and  dell 
'Tis  only  here  he  cares  to  dwell, 

'Tis  ever  here  he  longs  to  rest. 

This  is  his  home  of  joy  and  ease  : 
And  better  is  the  myrtle  tomb 
Than  all  the  heavy  dusks  that  gloom 

The  groves  of  spice  beyond  the  seas. 


DRIFTING. 

A    LARK'S  song  rippled  in  the  air, 
With  liquid  trill  that  smote  the  dawn, 
He  hastened  down  the  dewy  lawn 
And  found  the  morning  breezes  fair ; 

And  half  the  anchor-cable  in, 

And  half  the  sails  were  loosed,  and  full 
Of  salty  winds ;   with  steady  pull 

He  bade  the  frothing  eddies  spin 

And  whirl  about  his  dripping  oar, 

As  on  he  sped  and  joined  the  bark  ; 
Then  from  the  deck  he  leaned  to  mark 

The  wondrous  beauty  of  the  shore. 

They  seemed  as  falling  scales,  his  tears, 
From  blinded  eyes,  that  would  not  see 
How  comfort  in  that  home  could  be, 

Though  comfort  kept  him  all  his  years. 


52  POEMS. 

High  on  the  yard  a  sailor  sang  : 
"  O  !    dusky  love  beyond  the  sea  ! 

O  !   dusky  love  that  longs  for  me "  — 
"And  thee,"  the  mocking  echoes  rang. 

"There  is  a  glory  in  the  gale — 

An  idle  dream  will  suit  the  calm, 
And  talk  of  leafy  thatch  and  palm — 
Shall  fill  the  watch  with  song  and  tale. 

"Lo!   yonder  is  the  star  that  guides 
The  mariner ;    we  lift  our  hands 
About  the  world,  in  many  lands ; 
For  what  are  winds,  and  what  are  tides, 

"But  spirits  luring  us  abroad? 

Rise  fragrant  isles  before  our  eyes — 
A  pyre  for  passion's  sacrifice, 
Where  pleasure  is  our  only  god  !  " 
****** 

A  hundred  trilling  songs  of  larks 

A  hundred  blooming  dawns  may  greet, 
But  who  shall  stay  the  wanderer's  feet, 

And  call  his  spirit  from  the  dark? 


SINGING    SHELLS. 

ONG  ago  !    long  ago  ! 

'Twas  Orpheus  caught  a  pale-pink  shell, 
With  deep,  dim  chambers  neatly  twined, 
And  pearly  lined,  and  pearly  lined, 
And  blew  the  wind 

In  music  through  its  hollow  halls, 
Till  all  the  Echoes  of  the  shore 

Cried  out  with  joy,  and  sought  a  shell, 
And  caught  the  faintly  lingering  tones 
Of  Orpheus'  music- — low  as  moans — 

And  drew  them  in  each  tiny  cell, 

While  rosy  walls  of  all  the  halls 
Grew  merry  then ;   and  quickly  fell 
A  murmurous  song  from  every  shell. 

Long  ago  !    long  ago  ! 
'Twas  Orpheus  tuned  the  shells  to  voices ; 
And  all  along  the  pebbled  shore 
Was  music,  where  was  none  before, 


54  POEMS. 

And  now  each  little  one  rejoices ; 

And  every  shell  a  tale  doth  tell 

How  music  came  with  them  to  dwell ; 
And  all  along  the  pearled  shore, 

Though  winds  do  rave  and  toss  the  wave, 
And  bitter  spray  is  on  the  land, 

He  guards  them  well,  each  little  shell, 
Who  holds  the  waters  in  His  hand. 
So,  all  along  the  pearled  shore, 
'Mid  sighing  waves,  or  ocean's  roar, 
They  sing,   and  sing,  forevermore. 


THE    TWO    CLEOPATRA.S. 

TVT IGHT  is  the  shadow  of  that  Ethiop  queen, 
With  brow  as  dark  as  Night,  as  richly  jeweled 
In  barbarous  ravishment  of  luxury  ; 
The  enchantress  of  the  Cydnus,   in  her  toils 
Seeking  new  pleasures,  slaying  joys  with  sighs, 
And  drowning  mirth  with  her  full  tide  of  tears. 

Night  is  the  shadow  of  that  Ethiop  queen, 
In  rapturous  witchery  of  beatitude  ; 
Who  drank  a  hundred  pearls,  immaculate 
In  their  white  gloom  of  glory,  and  of  rare 
And  fabulous  richness.     Lo  !  the  haughty  queen 
Heaped  the  all-immeasurable  wealth 
Of  treasures  rare  within  a  vessel,  where, 
Breathing  a  mist  of  filmy  radiance — 
A  seeming  vapor  woven  of  gemmy  rays, 
That  lurked  in  nebulous  folds  about  the  latent, 
Limpid,  and  viewless  confines  of  the  vessel — 
The  copious  fund,  the  teeming  store  of  treasure 


56  POEMS. 

Was  straight  dissolved  and  lost  in  the  crisp  bubbling 
And  all-devouring  properties  of  acids. 

Then,  after  this  accomplished,  did  she  mingle 
With  added  juices,  spice,   and  redolence 
Of  various  tinctures,  a  most  savory  draught. 
Her  folded  fingers  held  the  jeweled  verge 
Of  the  clear  goblet,  from  pure  ether  hewn, 
Or  some  most  lucent  crystal,  delicate, 
And  laid  the  gleaming  halo  of  the  goblet 
Against  the  amorous  volume  of  her  lips, 
Where  broke  the  violent  fever  of  her  love 
In  turgid  crimsoning,  deepening  the  ripe  tint 
O'  the  silky  curtains  hung  about  the  proud, 
Voluptuous  tower  of  her  enticing  feature. 
So,  staying  the  hot  current  of  her  blood 
In  the  drowsy  syrup,  clotted  here  and  there, 
And  crusted  in  pearl-ices,  glittering  pastes, 
And  frosty  miracles  of  rich  congealment 
About  the  invisible  limits  of  the  vessel  ; 
Drank  she  the  all  incalculable  value 
Of  crystalizing  dregs,  and  hurled  the  cup 
At  a  dumb  serving  slave,  a  fawning  eunuch, 
Black  as  hell's  border,  crouching  close  along, 
The  swelling  curvature  of  her  fair  barge 


THE    Two    CLEOPATRAS.  57 

Heading  the  vast  armada,  as  it  lay 
Becalmed  among  the  silver  of  the  Cyndus. 
The  dense  aroma  of  their  several  freights 
Had  quite  embalmed  the  zephyr,  and  they  lay 
Beating  the  silver  bosom  of  the  Cyndus, — 
Like  prisoned  birds,  with  fretful  throb  of  wings, 
Beating  the  bosom  of  the  silver  Cyndus, 
Close  upon  Tarsus,  where  reveled  Anthony. 

Night  is  the  shadow  of  that  Ethiop  queen  : 
She  strews  the  seas  with  stars  innumerable — 
The  bubbly  sea  with  stars  which  are  as  pearls ; 
And  when  the  wave  is  like  to  stiffen,  or  burst 
Its  dusky  rind  for  too  great  store  of  rare 
And  gleaming  treasure,  Night !  lo,  haughty  Night, 
The  very  shadow  of  that  Ethiop  queen 
Dips  at  the  borders  of  the  teeming  sea 
And  drinks  the  richness  of  the  winy  flood, 
Leaving  the  world  as  empty  of  the  dark 
And  cloudy  turbulence  of  Muscadine 
As  was  the  crystal  chalice  that  was  drained 
By  the  proud  daring  of  old  Egypt's  queen. 


A  T    THE    SPRING. 

\   KNEW  a  cumbrous  hill, 
From  whose  green  breast  did  daintily  distill 
A  throbbing  rill. 

This  is  the  artery, 

And  further  on  the  crystal  heart  must  be, 
Thought  said  to  me. 


All  other  I  forsook, 

To  follow  every  twist  and  curious  nook 
Of  this  wild  brook. 


Ax    THE    SPRING.  59 

Among  deep  mosses  set, 
I  found  the  glimmering  fount  that  did  beget 
The  rivulet. 

No  other  eye  had  known 
Its  secret,   nor  ear  heard,  for  it  made  moan 
Always  alone. 

I  quaffed  its  waters  clear  : 
Its  limpid  music  babbled  to  mine  ear 
With  voice  sincere. 

Then  such  a  silence  fell 
Upon  me,  mantling  me,  as  where  a  spell 
Is  wont  to  dwell. 

Yet  fled  I  from  the  place 
At  a  rude  rustling  :   and  fear  gave  me  chase 
In  my  disgrace. 

'Twas  a  slim  water-snake 

Slipt  like  an  arrow  through  the  shivering  brake, 
And  left  no  wake. 


60  POEMS. 

But  cleft  the  placid  spring 
And  waved  its  flaming  sword,   its  forked  sting, 
In  a  charmed  ring. 


So  was  the  fountain  spoiled, 
Within  its  lucid  walls  a  devil  coiled- 
My  trust  was  foiled. 


OF    THE     HE 


ART 


MA D  RIG  A L  . 

A     MAID  is  sitting  by  a  brook, 

The  sweetest  of  sweet  creatures  : 

I  pass  that  way  with  my  good  book 

Yet  cannot  read,   nor  cease  to  look 

Upon  her  winsome  features. 


Amid  the  blushes  on  her  cheek 

Her  small,  white  hand  reposes  : 
I  am  a  shepherd,   for  I  seek 
That  wilful  lamb,   with  fleece  so  sleek, 
Feeding  among  the  roses  ! 


MY   LITTLE    LOVE. 

AACHEN  my  little  love  at  purple  dusk, 
Trips  out  upon  the  lawn  among  the  flowers, 

The  blushing  roses  quiver  in  their  musk, 

Love-smitten  through :  the  feathery,  fragrant  showers 

Of  snow-white  blossoms  drift  upon  the  grass, 

Kissing  her  whispering  footsteps  as  they  pass. 

When  my  little  love  at  evening's  hush, 

Goes  dancing  down  the  dell  with  laugh  and  song, 
The  slumbering  echoes  waken,  and  a  gush 

Of  silvery  voices  greet  her,  and  along 
The  dewy  clusters  of  the  trailing  vines 
In  music  mingles,  murmurs,  and  repines. 

When  my  little  love  hath  sought  her  cot 
To  dream  of  angels,  as  the  stars  grow  clear 

I  homeward  plod — alas!    unhappy  lot — 
Yet  turn  again — I'd  long  to  tarry  near — 

Till  slowly  wandering,  thinking  of  her  still, 

I  meet  the  blue  night  coming  o'er  the  hill. 


S  WEE  THE  AR  T. 

C\  j    THIS  love  of  mine  ! 
Never  artist's  dream 
Was  as  fair  as  she  : 
Jetty  locks,  that  seem 
Glossy  as  can  be — 
Night  before  the  day 
Hath  streaked  it  through  with  gray. 

O  !   this  love  of  mine ! 
Brow  as  white  as  sands 
On  a  tropic  shore  ; 
Eyes  as  deep  as  seas 
And  darker  than  before 
Dawn  hath  turned  them  blue  ; 
Cheeks  of  richest  hue, 
Pink  as  pinkest  shell 
That  ever  mermaid  bore 
From  enchanted  lands 


66  POEMS. 

Home  where  she  did  dwell. 
Sometimes,  if  I  please 
That  she  blossom  more, 
Her  beauty  is  so  fine — 
Rosy  as  red  wine. 

O !    this  love  of  mine  ! 
Mouth  a  ripened  fruit, 
If  the  maid  is  mute, 
Tempting  me  to  sin 
In  delicious  greed  ; 
If  a  smile  I  win, 
Then  with  charming  speed 
It  is  cleft  indeed, 
Showing  pearly  seed. 

O  !   this  love  of  mine  ! 
Such  a  witching  curl, 
Such  a  cunning  chin, 
Like  a  single  pearl 
With  a  dimple  in; 
Parian  carved  throat 
All  of  curved  lines 


SWEETHEART.  67 

Such  as  Psyche  shows, 
When  she  sad  reclines 
In  some  isle  remote 
Mourning  Cupid's  boat 
Fading  out  of  view  ; 
Is  the  picture  true? 
Then  her  bosom's  snow 
In  twin  drifts,  but  hush ! — 
All  that  I  have  shown 
Could  not  bid  her  blush  : 
If  you  are  a  maid, 
Since  never  was  a  pair, 
Quite  too  much  is  said 
Unless  you  are  as  fair ; 
If  you  are  a  man, 
Mate  her  if  you  can  ! 


A    PROVERB    PROVED. 

ILL  rny  love's  so  truthful  eyes 
Ever  fail  me,  though  I  please 
From  their  depths  to  draw  supplies 
That  could  waste  the  seas  ? 

Will  those  pure,  delicious  springs 
Ever  fail  me?  Wretched  day 

When  my  heart  no  longer  brings 
Its  life-draught  away! 

Do  they  nourish  my  desire 

But  to  break  the  golden  bowl : — 

At  their  margin  bid  expire 
My  all-thirsting  soul? 

No  !    a  voice  forever  tells 

That  my  love's  so  truthful  eyes 

Are  th'  unfathomed  crystal  wells 
Where  within  truth  lies. 


OF    FANCY   AND   IMAGINATION 


THE    SECRET    WELL. 

KNOW  a  well  so  deep  and  cool 
And  hid,   the  crystal-hearted  pool 
Hath  never  thrilled  a  swallow's  throat 

Or  sweetened  one  lark's  note. 

No  fainting  stag,   though  perishing, 
Hath  ventured  to  disturb  this  spring  : 
No  leopard  with  its  fiery  breast 
This  fountain  dares  molest. 

No  cunning,   silver-cased  trout 
The  sheltered  source  can  e'er  find  out- 
No  tongue  but  mine  may  ever  tell 
The  secret  of  this  well. 

I  build  about  its  guarded  rim 
With  added  stones ;   I  know  the  dim, 
Still  twilight  of  its  mossy  cell 
Where  the  sweet  waters  dwell. 


72  POEMS. 

For  spirits  go  between  us  two 
With  flasks ;  they  brim  with  softest  dew. 
I  drink  and  am  refreshed,   and  seem 
As  living  in  a  dream. 

This  well,  that  is  alone  for  me, 
Is  but  a  fount  of  memory  : 
And  every  year  that  I  have  known 
Is  but  an  added  stone. 

My  willing  thoughts,   as  spirits,  haste 
To  draw  the  draught  I  love  to  taste. 
There  is  an  ever  full  supply 
Yet  who  may  drink  but  I? 


CHERRIES    AND    GRAPES. 

1VT  OT  the  cherries'  nerveless  flesh, 
However  fair,  however  fresh, 
May  ever  hope  my  love  to  win 
For  Ethiop  blood  and  satin  skin. 

Their  luster  rich  and  deep  their  dye  ; 
Yet  under  all  their  splendors  lie — 
That  which  I  cannot  tribute  grant — 
Their  hateful  hearts  of  adamant. 

I  love  the  amber  globes  that  hold 
That  dead-delicious  wine  of  gold ; 
A  thousand  torrid  suns  distill 
Such  liquors  as  these  flagons  fill. 

Yet  tropic  gales  with  souls  of  musk 
Should  steep  my  grapes  in  steams  of  dusk 
And  orient  Eden  nothing  lacks 
To  spice  their  purple  silken  sacks. 


THE  WOODPECKER. 

A     BUSY  woodpecker !    What  would  you  call 

This  monk  of  a  fellow,  tapping  a  tree 
With  little  cells  like  a  catacombed  hall, 
To  bury  his  acorns  in — what  would  you  call 
Such  a  curious  monk  as  he? 

Tucking  his  acorns  away  in  their  tomb 

To  feed  upon,  by  and  by,  at  his  will — 
Does  he  ever  think  of  the  hidden  bloom 
In  the  acorn's  heart?    Though  shut  in  a  tomb 
There  is  life  cherished  there  still. 

Time  is  a  woodpecker,  crowding  the  cells 

Of  the  catacombed  earth  with  holy  dead  ; 
But  there 's  a  bud  of  life  that  swells 
In  the  oak  tree's  might  and  it  shatters  the  cells 
As  the  soul  when  the  life  has  fled. 


NIGHT    SONG. 

S  it  a  corse  embalmed  in  state? 
Was  it  a  princess  pale  in  death, 

White  in  her  bridal  vail? 
All  of  the  roses  held  their  breath 
And  the  dews  fell  very  early  and  late, 

I  thought  that  they  never  would  fail — 
While  the  night  went  out  and  the  morn  came  in, 
And  the  drowsy  world  awoke  with  a  din, 
And  the  fading  stars  fled  with  a  wail. 

Never  a  corse  in  its  bleachen  shroud, 
Never  the  daughter  of  a  queen 

Under  sarcophagus  bars; 
But  the  fairest  face  that  ever  was  seen, 
Hid  i'  the  misty  hem  of  a  cloud — 

Softly  the  night  wind  jars 
The  nebulous  texture  asunder,  and  soon 
The  angel  of  midnight  bore  the  moon 
Over  a  flood  of  stars. 


MA  R  S . 

TVT  OW  Mars  steals  over  the  water  ; 

He  is  marching  down  from  the  sky — 
Great  Mars  with  his  golden  helmet 

And  the  golden  flame  in  his  eye. 

The  sea  is  still,  for  the  ripples 

Are  hushed  at  the  god's  slow  tread ; 

And  a  line  of  light  is  trailing 
The  wave  like  a  burning  thread. 

Sad  Mars !    he  is  wearied  with  marching, 

And  wandering  off  is  he, 
While  he  nods  his  yellow  helmet 

And  thrusts  his  lance  in  the  sea. 

Faltering  Mars  !   with  his  marching 

Wearied  he  seems  to  be  ; 
While  he  tips  his  helmet  and  merges 

His  golden  lance  in  the  sea. 


THE    COMET. 


it  a  star, 

Or  was  it  a  pearl, 
Loosed  with  a  jar 

From  its  setting 
I'  the  coronet  moon, 

And  begetting, 
As  it  fell  with  a  whirl  — 
Whirling  far  — 
A  splendor  that  faded  too  soon  ? 

Was  it  a  dream 

Of  some  splendid  star  born, 
That  glowed  with  a  gleam 

And  a  quiver 
That  startled  the  night? 

Like  a  river 

That  flowed  to  the  morn 
It  did  seem, 
In  its  luminous,  lustrous  light. 


78  POEMS. 


Was  it  a  gem 

Transfixed  with  a  ray 
From  the  burning,   bright  hem 

Of  the  wondrous, 
Terrible  sun,   or  the  moon  ? 
Over  us,   under  us, 
Nor  night,  no,  nor  day 
Hath  its  equal,   bright  gem 
Fair  feather  of  light,   flown  too  soon. 


THE    ANGEL,     THE    WINE,     AND 
PEA R  L S . 

AN      ALLEGORY     OF     THE     YEAR. 
I. 

SAW  a  tiny  flask  of  wine 
An  Angel  held,   'twas  rare  and  fine. 

A  little  golden  round  of  light, 
With  every  dainty  picture  dight. 

Upon  its  sculptured  sides  I  found 
Both  joy  and  woe,  close  linked  around. 

I  wondered  at  the  goblet  fine, 
The  gleaming  gold,  the  little  wine. 

The  Angel  said;    "This  flask  I  hold 
Is  more  to  man  than  simple  gold, 


8o  POEMS. 

V 

"Or  rosy  nectar;   here  are  found — 
Within  its  fair  and  golden  round — 

"Great  drops  of  blood  that  yield  a  life 
With  every  dainty  pleasure  rife  ; 

"Nor  lacks  it  woe  at  times  ;  and  here 
Are  stored  the  secrets  of  a  year. 


ir. 

"These  pearls" — the  Angel's  delicate  hand 
A  dozen  radiant  pearls  it  spanned — 

"Are  months,  that  will  the  goblet  load 
Until  the  rim  is  overflowed  : 

"The  crimson  flood  is  crowded  up 
Until  the  year's  end  fills  the  cup." 

And  having  said,  the  Angel  spilled 
A  single  pearl,  the  inner  gild 


THE    ANGEL,    THE  WINE,    AND    PEARLS.     81 

Was  deeper  buried  in  the  hue 

Of  crimson.     Said  the  Angel :    "View! 

"A  pearl  is  dropped,  a  time  has  flown, 
The  secret  of  a  month  is  known." 

Then  fell  another;   others  still 
Close  followed  this,  and  this,  until 

The  crimson  flood  rose  bubbling  up — 
Each  pearl-drop  deeper  filled  the  cup — 

And  rosily  just  brimmed  the  top. 
But  one  more  pearl  was  left  to  drop. 


in. 

I  looked.     Her  fingers  loosed,  it  falls — 
The  round  of  golden-gleaming  walls 

Are  sunk  below  the  crimson  line — 
The  buried  pearl  has  spilled  the  wine. 


82  POEMS. 

The  Angel  set  the  cup  aside; 

I  asked  :   ' '  Why  this  ?  "  and  quick  replied 

The  radiant  spirit,   reaching  up 
To  clasp  another  ready  cup  : 

"Each  pearl-month  i'  the  goblet  falls, 
The  life-blood  climbs  the  golden  walls 

"Until  the  rim  is  reached,   and  here 
Is  broke  the  bubble  of  the  year. 

"The  gems  have  run  the  goblet  o'er, 
The  wine  is  richer  for  the  store  : 

"The  pearls  are  spilled,  the  months  have  flown, 
The  secrets  of  a  year  are  known." 


S  A  NCTUA  RY. 


some  sacrilegious  hand 
Hath  robbed  the  temples  of  their  store 
Of  relics,   up  and  down  the  land 
And  hurled  the  altars  o'er, 

And  strewn  the  treasures  all  among 
These  quiet  valleys.     As  I  walk 

I  find  a  pearly  rosary  hung 
Upon  this  lily  stalk. 

Hath  timid  maid,   or  tearful  nun 
Bethought  her  of  this  lone  retreat 

Yet,  with  her  "Ave"  scarce  begun, 
Her  prayer-beads  at  her  feet, 

Intruders  bid  her  quickly  fly, 
And  flying,   frighted,   she  forgets 

That  where  she  knelt  in  secret  lie 
Her  glittering  amulets. 


84  POEMS. 

Alas  !  how  poor,   how  desolate 

The  place  where  man  strode  rudely  by, 

The  pink  no  more  shall  elevate 
Its  chalice  to  the  sky. 

And  here  are  bleeding  roses  shorn 
Along  the  hedge — by  shearer  vext, 

Rare  antique  rubrics — roughly  torn 
From  that  quaint  leafy  text. 

And  thistle-aspergills  bestrew 

Meek  buds  that  nestle  at  their  side 

With  holy  drops  of  luscious  dew 
That  night  hath  sanctified. 

The  morning-glory's  fragile  cup 
A  lucent  honey-drop  could  boast ; 

Fair  monstrance — it  is  broken  up, 
And  vailed  is  the  Host. 

And  what  is  this  that  greeteth  me, 
The  Calla,  that  I  prize  above 

All  lilies?  so  I  mention  thee, 
O  !  lily  of  my  love — 


SANCTUARY.  85 

A  perfumed  satin  altar  cloth 
With  one  tall,  golden  candlestick  ; 

A  velvet  butterfly  's  the  moth 
That  frets  thy  rosy  wick. 

Thy  spotless  napkin  doth  enfold 
Such  balm  and  costly  frankincense, 

As  shrouds  the  swinging  censer's  gold 
In  clouds  that  struggle  thence. 

But  now  I  hear  the  vesper  call 

Of  floating  air-bells,   deftly  tipt  ; 
The  dove  's  at  her  confessional — 

The  monk-mole  in  his  crypt. 

And  flowery  fields  my  eyes  engage  ; 

The  rivulets,  the  winding  ways — 
A  missal,  whose  illumined  page 

Is  given  up  to  praise. 

So  if  none  false  hath  donned  the  gown 
And  sought  the  votive  priest  to  play, 

Then  thrown  the  sacred  altars  down 
And  hid  the  charms  away — • 


86  POEMS. 

Dear  Nature  is  the  saint  that  rears 
This  sanctuary  to  our  God — 

And  still  renews  through  all  the  years 
Where  hateful  feet  have  trod. 


OF    ASPIRATION   AND    DESIRE. 


DECREES. 

SIT  in  sorrow  by  the  watery  gates, 
A  questioning  the  Fates. 

I  ask  :  ' '  What  manner  of  strange  ships  are  these 
Slipping  adown  the  seas? 

' '  Slipping  adown  the  slanting  seas — what  sail 
Is  yonder — calm  and  pale  ? ' ' 


Then  the  Fates  answer  me  :     ' '  That  goodly  bark 
Braving  the  waters  dark 


90  POEMS. 

' '  So  fearlessly — the  cross  upon  her  mast — 
Is  Trust,  come  home  at  last. 

' '  Yon  quivering  craft  that  veers  and  puts  about, 
Is  the  long-cruising  Doubt. 

' '  This  dancing  galley  that  the  waters  mock, 
Shall  strike  upon  the  rock  ; 

" 'T  is  Chance,  a  pleasure  yacht;    her  ribs  shall  bleach 
Upon  the  blistering  beach." 

Yet  still  I  see  a  flamelike,  shining  cloud, 
And  eager  cry  aloud  : 

"  That  other  sail  that  waits  upon  the  wind — 
What  is  her  name  and  kind  ? ' ' 

To  me  the  Fates :   ' '  Though  lying  still  and  wan 
She  shall  approach  anon  ; 

' '  So  nobly  manned — with  any  gale  to  cope — 
Behold  the  trusty  Hope" 


DECREES.  91 

"Quicken  the  winds,   I  pray  you,  worthy  Fates, 
In  her  are  stored  my  freights  ! 

1 '  Nor  am  I  fit  for  life  of  any  sort, 

Till  she  shall  reach  the  port." 


FAME. 

WHE  charmed  him  \\iih  her  charming  eye; 

To  know  its  luster  was  to  die, 

Or  feed  forever  on  its  light. 

She  bore  him  to  her  mountain  height ; 

With  wine-sweet  lips  she  kissed  to  rest 

The  thousand  longings  in  his  breast. 

She  ringed  him  with  her  glittering  coils  ; 
Her  flattering  words  were  soft  as  oils, 
All  swam  before  his  drunken  sight  ; 
He  felt  his  beauty  and  his  might, 
And  cursed  the  darkness  as  he  hurled 
Defiance  at  the  crouching  world. 

He  did  not  know  her  treachery ; 

But  thought  her  tightened  grasp  to  be 

The  clasp  of  love — O  !  heavy  fate  ! 

She  thrust  him  in  the  face  of  hate 

With  all  the  venom  in  her  born, 

And  slew  him  with  her  tongue  of  scorn. 


DESIRE. 

WOULD  the  Fates  were  busier 
A  shaping  out  my  name  and  story. 
It  seems  not  like  a  haggard  Fate 
To  hesitate,  and  hesitate ; 
But  they  '11  demur  if  they  prefer, 
And  far  away  is  fame  and  glory. 

Perhaps  delay  is  profiting, 

And  disappointments  shape  a  moral ; 
But  age  cares  not  for  sweet  applause, 
For  age  is  wise  with  "says  and  saws.1 
With  merry  spring  I  love  to  sing 

And  with  my  youth  I  seek  my  laurel. 

I  cannot  choose  experience 

To  lead  me  faltering  and  jaded, 
While  all  the  blossom  of  my  life 
Is  wasting  in  the  fretful  strife, 
Till  reaching  hence  that  height  intense 
I  find  the  myrtle  plucked  or  faded. 


94  POEMS. 

No  wreath  of  honor  dignifies 

The  silver  hairs,  nor  all  endeavor 
Finds  any  mark  of  royalty 
However  rich  the  trophy  be. 
Now  I  would  rise  and  seize  the  prize, 
Then  rest  forever  and  forever. 


CO  MP  EN SA  TION. 

AX  7 HAT  if  my  tender  roots  may  haply  coil 

In  a  deep  mellow  soil, 

Wherein  is  found  no  weed 
That  killeth  all  things  with  its  harmful  greed, 
But  only  there  is  nourished  mine  own  reed — 

To  rear  its  slender  crest 
In  every  hue  of  richest  blossom  dressed  ? 

If  in  the  sunny  mazes  of  my  leaves 

The  crafty  spider  weaves — 

Or  in  my  fairest  bloom 

Some  worm  hath  stole,  where  in  delicious  gloom 
It  lies  and  fattens  in  its  honeyed  tomb — 

What  shall  it  profit  me, 
.    The  outward  show  so  fair,  the  prize  I  seem  to  be? 

Still,  I  may  'scape  the  worm,  the  spider's  net; 
No  cursed  blight  may  set 
Its  dangerous  touch  anew 


96  POEMS. 

Upon  my  frailest  buds,  in  vile  mildew ; 

My  faded  flowers  the  Autumn  winds  may  strew  ; 

But,  after  all  the  strife, 
If  I  have  borne  no  fruit,  or  seed,  what  use  was  life  ? 


UNREST. 

VESTAL  lilies,  white  and  still, 
Thy  golden  cressets  newly  trim  ; 
O  !  wine-tipt  tulip  globes  now  spill 
Thy  orient  oils  upon  the  flame; 
My  heavy  woe  I  may  not  name, 
But  woe  were  less  if  thou  wouldst  fill 

Each  golden  cresset's  rim — 
For  I  may  burn  within  the  fire 

All  bitterness,  but  what  is  true 
Endures  the  ordeal  of  the  pyre, 
And  swathes  itself  in  gossamer  dew. 

O !  summer  wind  return  again 

And  sing  my  little  ills  to  rest ; 
Distill  thy  balm,  delightful  rain, 

Through  various  currents  of  the  air ; 
The  cross  is  heavy  that  I  bear  ; 
But  thou  mayest  lull  the  vexing  pain 
And  breathe  a  quiet  in  my  breast. 


98  POEMS. 

Peace,  weary  heart !    O  !  tongue  be  mute  ! 

Voluptuous  goddess,  prithee,  weep 
Thy  golden  tears,  and  soft  salute 

Yon  star,  my  soul  desireth  sleep. 


A     RHYME    OF    LIFE. 

T  F  life  be  as  a  flame  that  death  doth  kill  ; 

Burn  little  candle  lit  for  me, 
With  a  pure  spark,  that  I  may  rightly  see 

To  word  my  song  and  utterly 
God's  plan  fulfill. 

If  life  be  as  a  flower  that  blooms  and  dies  ; 

Forbid  the  cunning  frost  that  slays 
With  Judas-kiss,  and  trusting  love  betrays : 

Forever  may  my  song  of  praise 
Untainted  rise. 

If  life  be  as  a  voyage,  or  foul,  or  fair  : 
O  !  bid  me  not  my  banners  furl 

For  adverse  gale,  or  wave  in  angry  whirl, 
Till  I  have  found  the  gates  of  pearl 
And  anchored  there. 


THE    AWAKENING, 

T    TOUCHED  the  shore  in  other  climes 
Encompassed  by  warm  leagues  of  sea  ; 

I  breathed  the  spicy  breath  of  limes 
The  sauntering  gales  bore  down  to  me. 

A  hundred  palms  with  feathered  tips 
Displayed  their  fair  pavilion  screens 

Upon  the  yellow  sandy  slips  ; 

Beyond  the  beating  barks  were  seen. 

And  as  the  barks  were  blown  across 
The  summer-blue  of  ocean's  breast, 

My  thoughts  were  borne  about  to  toss 
Among  the  currents  of  unrest. 

My  hammock  swung  within  a  shade, 

I  loosed  my  thoughts  where  they  would  rove, 

Then  sounds  were  hushed,  the  ships  did  fade, 
I  slumbered  in  the  musky  grove. 


THE    AWAKENING.  101 

I  dreamed,  and  all  my  thoughts  returned 

Across  the  far-dividing  deep, 
And  that  dear  land  for  which  I  yearned 

I  seemed  to  find  in  fevered  sleep. 

In  dreams  I  reached  my  native  shore, 

I  found  the  year  in  deep  decline, 
The  desolate,  dull  landscape  bore 

No  hopeful  look  to  answer  mine. 

I  faltered  then  and  prayed  for  hope — 

And  hope  is  his  whoever  wills ; 
With  half  a  hundred  doubts  to  cope 

I  strode  across  the  bronze-brown  hills. 

Then  seeking  with  impulsive  haste 

Some  phantom  that  my  brain  had  wrought, 

Old,  dear  familiar  streets  I  paced, 
But  missed  forever  what  I  sought. 

Where  were  the  faces  that  I  knew? 

Where  were  the  hearts  that  I  could  trust? 
Below  the  dark  and  lonely  yew 

Was  heaped  away  their  hallowed  dust. 


io2  POEMS. 

"O  Christ!"   I  cried,  "who  died  for  us 

That  we  might  live ;    one  only  kiss 
From  those  mute  lips  ! "   "  Why  sorrow  thus  ? 
There  is  another  life  than  this  — " 

A  mellow  voice  of  heavenly  calm 

With  its  annunciation  spilled 
Soft  chrism  oils,  and  straight  a  balm 

Fell  on  me,  and  my  pain  was  stilled. 

But  then  I  pleaded  :   ' '  Take  me  hence 

To  glorify  thee  and  adore, 
For  what  are  actions  or  events 

With  kindred  gone  forevermore  ? ' ' 

The  voice  replied:    "No  action  dies 
Although  forgotten  long,  it  still 

A  sure  conviction  shall  arise — 
A  spirit  working  good  or  ill." 

Then  shame  smote  crimson  down  my  face, 
I  hastened  from  the  place  of  tombs, 

A  lighter  heart  bespoke  me  grace, 
I  doffed  my  dismal  cloak  of  glooms. 


THE    AWAKENING.  103 

I  cried:   "I  will  rejoice  to  do 

Such  deeds  that  nothing  ill  shall  dare 

To  stand  erected  in  the  view 

Of  the  new  legend,  fresh  and  fair. ' ' 

Then  swinging  in  my  hammock,  hung 
In  arbors  filled  with  fine  perfume, 

My  pulses  quickened  as  they  sung  : 
"We  shall  anon  this  task  assume." 

And  swaying  with  the  swaying  boughs, 
With  odors  of  the  fruit  and  flowers 

X 

About  me,  tempting  me  to  drowse 
Forever  in  the  scented  bower, 

There  came  a  voice  from  out  the  waves, 

It  was  not  as  the  voice  of  men : 

"All  they  that  lie  in  loathed  graves, 

They  shall  arise  and  live  again  ; 

"And  whether  urns  with  precious  mold, 

Or  whether  acts  long  since  forgot, 
A  new  shall  come  of  every  old, 
There  is  no  death  in  any  lot." 


IO4  POEMS. 

f 
I  could  have  turned  as  adders  turn 

To  slay  themselves  in  misery, 
That  I  had  lived  my  life  to  learn 
So  late  the  worth  of  life  to  me. 

O  !  foolish  lips  that  were  content 
To  sup  the  honey  of  soft  song ! 

O  !  silly  heart  so  sweetly  blent 

With  harp-like  music  trilled  too  long 

O !  heavenly  oracle  divine 

That  rilled  my  heart  with  holy  flame, 
What  new  delight  of  life  is  mine  ? 

What  miracle  of  hope  and  aim  ? 


OF     MEDITATION 


MY   FRIEND. 

HAVE  a  friend  who  is  so  true  to  me, 
We  may  not  parted  be. 

Though  I  have  strayed,  on  to  the  uttermost, 
Yet  is  his  voice  not  lost. 

If  I  am  madly-deaf  for  having  erred, 
Still  may  I  hear  his  word. 

If  sin  hath  slain  mine  honor,  straight  appears, 
The  river  of  his  tears, 

Wherein  I  find  redemption  ;   tenderly 
He  woos  my  fear  away 

And  searches  out  some  star  of  hope,  above, 
So  boundless  is  his  love. 


io8  POEMS. 

When  from  the  loathed  grave  I  shall  arise, 
He'll  hail  me  from  the  skies. 

Who  else  would  seek  me  in  corruption's  dress 
With   a  so  kind  caress  ? 

Though  I  am  weak,  there  is  a  hope  of  power ; 
He  is  my  mighty  tower  ; 

Like  as  a  flame  to  fright  the  gloom  away ; 
He  is  my  perfect  day. 

I  am  the  homely  bulb  that  tops  the  reed — 
He  is  the  precious  seed. 

I  am  the  rudest  shell  the  vext- waves  whirl — 
He  is  the  priceless  pearl. 

Thou  art  indeed  my  friend  while  ages  roll, 
O,  thou,  my  deathless  soul  ! 


SEED-TIME. 


is  a  rain,  to  fall 

Upon  us,   one  and  all, 
Like  needful  showers  that  make  the  dry  earth  mellow  ; 

For  autumn  days  will  come  — 

The  root  of  love  is  numb, 
Its  sweetest  blossoms  all  are  sear  and  yellow. 

And  then  a  quick  regret 

Will  harshly  seem  to  whet 
The  ploughshare  of  misfortune,  while  it  burrows 

Along  its  cruel  way  ; 

And  glossy  locks  grow  gray 
And  lusterless  beside  the  new-turned  furrows. 

Old  Time  comes  on  amain  — 

A  farmer  with  his  grain, 
Experience  he  sifts  between  his  fingers, 

As  up  and  down  he  goes. 

Search,  Time,  along  the  rows  ; 
Lest  in  thy  path  a  weed  of  evil  lingers  ! 


no  POEMS. 

His  cunning  skill  is  such 

He  seeks  with  careful  touch 
The  seeded  groves  with  softest  soil  to  cover ; 

Yet,  Time,  thou  hast  not  art, 

But  in  some  bruised  heart 
Long  traces  of  thy  husbandry  will  hover  ! 

O,  busy  husbandman, 

How  perfect  is  thy  plan  ! 
Behold  the  harvest !    for  thy  careful  flinging 

Of  little  curious  seed 

Shall  come  a  crop  indeed  ; 
Lo  !  peace,  and  trust,  and  every  virtue  springing ! 


P  ENS  ERO  S  A. 

T  S  it  sin  to  deal  with  sorrow  ? 

Looking  upward  through  our  tears, 
All  the  breadth  of  sky  is  clearer, 
And  twice  beautiful ;   and  dearer 
Seems  the  coming  of  the  morrow 

As  we  wrestle  with  our  fears ; 
Wherefore  should  we  comfort  borrow, 

While  the  woe  may  come  again  ? 
For  our  little  life  is  brief; 

And  though  never  joy  shall  light  it, 
Truly  not  our  tears  shall  blight  it  ; 
For  the  Christ  once  suffered  pain, 

And  He  was  acquaint  with  grief — 
He,  the  blessed  Christ,  did  deign 

Himself  to  weep.     What  matter  whether 
Smile  or  sigh  ?     The  fairest  bow, 


H2  POEMS. 

Where  the  sun  the  spray  hath  kissed, 
There  it  blossoms  in  the  mist 

Till  it  withers  in  fair  weather. 
Beautiful  is  grief!     I  know 

Peace  and  tears  may  dwell  together.  ' 


AT    POLLOCK'S    GRAVE. 


E  seared  leaf  quivering  down 
From  the  green  choir  that  wails  thy  brief  renown 
This  is  the  poet's  crown  ! 

Where  is  thy  skillful  lute, 

That  could  provoke  the  birds  to  sweet  dispute? 
Alas  !  forever  mute  ! 

The  hand  that  drew  the  balm 

Of  ravishing  music  from  tuned  strings  is  calm  ; 

The  worm  feeds  on  thy  palm. 

Not  the  majestic  sweep 
Of  subtle  melodies  thy  nerve  could  keep 
From  out  the  dusty  heap. 

The  eager  sun-rays  dart 

Through  silken  grasses,  searching  for  thy  heart, 
Of  perfect  gold  a  part. 


ii4  POEMS. 

The  frail  vine  mantling 
Thy  undeserved  nakedness  doth  cling 
About  thee,  perishing. 

Though  no  cut  altar-stone 
Is  set  to  tell  these  ashes  are  thine  own, 
Thou  art  not  all  unknown. 

Nor  dost  thou,  voiceless,  wait  ; 
A  thousand  whispering  tongues  shall  penetrate 
The  Heaven's  pearly  gate  : 

Singing  thine  unsung  songs, 
Chanting  thy  praises  out  of  tuneful  throngs, 
And  righting  all  thy  wrongs. 


I  would  some  song  dispense, 
But  falter  in  my  homely  utterance, 
For  music  is  flown  hence. 


"DROWNED!    DROWNED!" 

^  IS  said  when  drowning,  snatched  from  life 

and  light — 

When  drowning  in  sad  waters  deep  and  wide — 
When  drowning,  that  the  waters  and  the  wave 
Do  moan  most  musically,  and  singing,  sigh 
In  tenderest  tones,  and  witching  wild  refrains, 
That  enter  at  the  ear  and  fill  the  brain 
With  music,  quieting ;    and  that  the  soul 
Is  fraught  with  harmony,  and  urged  to  leave 
Its  transient  habitation  i'  the  clay, 
And  seek  that  far-beyond,  we  know  not  of. 

The  body's  tenantless  sleep  is  all  a-cold  ; 
And  coming  tides  slow  bear  it  to  the  strand, 
Among  the  rushes ;   and  the  fingers  close 
In  icy  clasp  among  the  rushes,  while 
The  ripples,  each  in  turn,  slip  up  the  shore, 
And  kiss  the  feet,  and  close  about  the  hands, 
And  twine  the  hair  among  the  roots,  and  trail 


n6  POEMS. 

The  long  sea-grasses  over  all  the  form 
In  slimy  ribbons. 

Then  the  tides  recede 

And  leave  the  body,  pale,  and  lank,  and  cold. 
All  in  the  silence  of  night,  upon  the  strand — 
Sad  waters  moaning  for  the  still,  dead  form, 
The  soulless  body  sleeping  on  the  strand. 

And  after 

A  bleachen  skull,  outstaring  the  bold  sun — 
The  mystery  of  birth,  and  age,  and  name — 
The  secret  of  the  soul's  flight,  and  the  blank 
And  wordless  story  of  a  shattered  life  ! 
***** 
The  rattling  reeds,  and  the  salt-odored  sea 
In  tireless  waves — the  hollow  autumn  wind 
Tossing  among  the  rushes — and  one  star 
Dropping  pearl  shadows  in  the  empty  bowls 
That  held  the  eves  once  in  this  withered  skull ! 


THE    SOUTHERN    CROSS. 

V\7^HENE'ER  those  southern  seas  I  sail, 
I  find  my  eyes  instinctive  turning 

Where,  pure  and  marvelously  pale, 

Four  sacred  stars  are  brightly  burning. 

A  star  is  set  above  the  thorns  ; 

Two  mark  the  bleeding  palms  extended  ; 
And  one  the  wounded  feet  adorns — 

In  four  the  potent  cross  is  blended. 

One  only  hand  had  power  to  place 
The  symbol  there,  and  that  immortal  ; 

Those  fair,  celestial  fires  may  grace 

• 

And  beautify  the  heavenly  portal. 

Whatever  danger  I  may  meet 
Upon  the  wild,  disastrous  ocean, 

Still  turn  my  trusting  eyes  to  greet 
That  flaming:  cross  with  true  devotion. 


1 1 8  POEMS. 

Nor  cease,  my  willing  heart,  to  give 
Thy  prayers,  and  every  just  endeavor  ; 

For  only  by  the  cross  I  live, 
And  by  the  cross  I  live  forever. 


"  D  I  O  N.   ' 

(LYMAN     R.     GOODMAN.) 

"V/^OU  sang  too  early  in  the  spring 
Of  our  uncheerful  year  of  song ; 
You  felt  the  bitter  chill  of  wrong, 

And  on  a  sudden  ceased  to  sing. 


And  on  a  sudden  sang  no  more 
In  skillful  measure  to  our  needs  ; 
But  there  is  One  who  ever  heeds 

Your  numbers  on  the  farther  shore. 


I  2O  P  O  K  M  S  . 

I  picture  you  as  one  who  lies 

• 

Among  the  palms,  with  harp  and  crown. 
A  silver,  quivering  thread,  let  down 
From  crystal  walls  of  Paradise, 

Is  the  sweet  echo  of  your  voice 

That  thrills  me.     In  your  vineyard's  throng 
I  taste  your  purple  grapes  of  song, 

And  in  their  honey-blood  rejoice. 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

L.     C.     B. 

OB.      MDCCCLXIV. 

^Et.   XXVI. 


now  the  chrysalis  ; 

Only  now  the  mortal  clay, 

Cold  and  breathless,  utterly. 
What  may  wake  him  ?     Not  a  kiss 

On  the  purest  brow  I  know, 
O  !  so  pallid  ;    not  a  kiss 

On  the  listless,  closed  eyes  ; 
They  can  look  beyond  the  skies 
At  the  white  throne.     Not  a  kiss 

On  the  hollow  cheek  of  snow. 
What  shall  wake  him  ?     Not  a  kiss 

On  the  bloodless,  sealed  lips, 

For  an  angel's  finger-tips 
Ever-silence  there  have  prest  ; 
And  the  quiet  of  his  breast 

Is  a  holy  sepulcher  ; 


122  POEMS. 

And  the  sleeping  Christ  within, 

Is  his  heart  immaculate, 
Purged  of  every  blight  and  sin. 

Death  the  ashes  did  inter 
With  the  odor  and  the  balm, 

Nourished  in  the  long  increase 
Of  the  Christ-man's  perfect  calm, 

And  his  soul's  eternal  peace. 
Faith  and  Hope  sit  at  the  gate 
Of  the  sepulcher,  and  wait 

For  the  dawning  judgment  day  ; 
At  the  portal  while  I  weep. 

At  the  portal  while  I  pray, 

Kneeling  at  the  silent  tomb — 

Who  will  break  the  awful  gloom  ? 
WTho  shall  wake  him  from  his  sleep  ? 

Who  can  roll  the  stone  away? 

Slumber  on  and  take  thy  rest ; 
Peace  forever  will  abide 
With  thy  memory  at  my  side, 

Dove-like  ;   and  upon  my  breast 
Falls  thy  spirit  sanctified  ! 


IN      M  E  M  O  R I  A  M . 

Only  here  the  chrysalis, 
Only  here  the  mortal  clay, 
Cold  and  breathless  utterly. 

Naught  may  wake  him  ;  not  a  kiss  ; 
Not  a  kiss  or  prayer  for  aye 

Shall  recall  him  out  of  bliss  ! 

Only  here  the  chrysalis, 

With  the  spirit  flown  away  ! 


123 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  "below 


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PS 
?3Q 

Al     Poems . 
1867 


UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

PS2930   .A1    1867 


L  009  603  735  3 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  231  411   8 


PS 
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Al 
1867 


